Sunday
by All and Sundry
Summary: <html><head></head>A little time without words was not so unpleasant.</html>


**P**lease note I use UK English and I would ask that you please take your time when you read as my style makes for a kind of prose poetry. If you attempt to blaze through, it may not make sense.

Due thanks goes to **Gweniveve Skyes **for playing beta for me for this piece.

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><p><strong>. : Sunday : .<strong>

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><p>Soundless and quivering. White curtains around windows. Glass panes thrown wide.<p>

Warm sunlight spilled over crumpled blankets and the figure buried under them and shifting slowly.

With a sleep-thickened yawn she rose, slender fingers pulling at tangles.

A closed-eyed smile was given in greeting to the late morning sun.

Bare footsteps on cool tile made lashes flutter.

A little more.

A little more awake.

Jagged spot rubbed off her favourite mug under one thumb. At the last moment, it clattered softly against other porcelain pieces back in the sink.

Pressing the button over a paper cup, she let the little blue thing gurgle and bubble on its own a while.

The strokes of her brush are quiet and quick, the wooden handle tapping on the sink counter, then hands busied with tortoise shell formed into claws.

No.

First a pin right near the back of her neck. Another. Then the clip around the gathered parts.

The pins are pulled out when she remembers later, setting down a cup with streaky contents.

It's left with a brown ring at the bottom, her disappearing behind the bedroom door a little while longer.

When it opens, then another does soon after.

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><p>In worn places along stone streets, yellows boots splashed puddles. Rain. All night.<p>

The pair of coins in hand glinted.

One was for the man on the corner waving freckled hands.

Like always, she did her best to frown but her smile is just as sure as the jubilant crinkles beginning to show around his mouth.

Between hands, the bit of gold became a rose. Yellow today. He pointed at her boots and trimmed and snapped.

A bit of stalk left but no more thorns, just enough to keep behind an ear. The soft petals between her fingers were enough but she crouched compliantly still for a few more blooms to fit into the grooves in her clip.

The other coin's home was a little ways away.

She stepped off the curb and across the street to another.

Amidst footsteps were more of the same kind, chatter of lilting voices, and the narrow rumble of scooter zipping past.

Once came right up to the streetside ahead, the pair on it positively giggles and hands. A man's on a woman's face. Then lips too.

She remembered her steps and watched each one in passing the pair quietly.

Maybe.

Maybe someday.

She felt the ridges of the last coin in her hand.

Standing there on the sidewalk ahead was a man in a white suit, papers inches from his face.

She stopped.

Gold letters looped carefully across the glass front of the café.

In the morning, the shelves were neat and not. Three nice and straight. Rows of treats arranged. But some stacked. More crowded in between. Some spiraled, dotted with dark chocolate bits. Some just round and gleaming, insides hidden like gems. Some with flaky edges, made snowy with sugar. Each a right handful.

Just enough to share.

Down the street, the couple laughed.

Maybe.

Maybe one day.

She'll find him.

Light danced over the glass.

At length she felt him and moved, allowing admiration from others rather than just herself.

"_Sorry," _she chirped.

But he hadn't moved.

Over her shoulder, she glanced. Once.

Then again.

Turning, she knew.

The pastry shop never had his attention.

Then he had hers.

Straight lines. Crisp edges. Bright colour in a bolt down his chest, as blue as the cloudless sky above. Like etched glass.

Easily shattered.

Perhaps cool to the touch.

She was certain somehow.

"_Have we met before?"_

He opened his mouth.

The air burst with a sudden symphony.

Melodic clangs and resonant chimes from above. From everywhere. Delight in jumbled songs of bells ringing in a hundred steeples. Then more, from sills and eaves, the birds scattered colour into the skies, adding their chirps and warbles to the sound filling the sky.

"What's your name?"

Words floated away into the aerial chorus.

He waited, watching the shifts of his own boots.

A shame.

He had the kind of eyes it would take a day to look at.

Then another.

"Your name?"

She blinked and fought away a frown.

He sucked in a breath and tried once more.

And she turned one ear better towards him and heard.

But the language.

With a fading smile was her answer, _"I'm sorry. I don't understand."_

Nor did he.

The line of his mouth tightened. A hand drew through dark hair.

Restless fingers rubbed the grooves of the coin in her palm.

Whatever he meant to say.

Whatever he would say after that.

Couldn't matter.

She turned.

"Wait!"he barked.

Then he repeated but she shook her head.

She found him looking down to her.

Still.

"_You." _

Lips parted in soundless surprise.

"_Yes?" _her word in reply was quiet.

"_Your…" _he trailed, brow a quick knot.

It wasn't enough.

Only then he seemed to remember something, patting oddly in spots where pockets might be. Stopping, he murmured under his breath and fixed his gaze behind her.

As if to the café window, he spoke at long last.

"_Name," _he pronounced carefully. _"Your name?"_

She was unable to contain the notes tumbling up from her throat.

Quite suddenly he shoved his arms into a fold but she reached, white fabric of his sleeve crinkling between her fingers.

A little tug had him following her in under the chime of the bell tied to the doorframe.

At the counter, the pair pressed.

Paper crinkled around a wrapped parcel set onto worn woodgrain. The usual.

Purchased by the unusual. A glossy bit of plastic he produced.

They sat inside amidst warm aroma and soft clinks of pieces against dishes.

Fingers traded off brassy buttons for satiny inner pockets. Then the electronic hidden there.

He meant to make it think for him, conjure all the words nearly escaping memory but she reached and the table became its new home.

He watched.

Slender fingers tugged and folded paper. Contents carefully torn, she offered half and heard no objections.

A little time without words was not so unpleasant.

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><p><strong>. : End : .<strong>

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><p>Inspired from Les Friction's "Sunday" which I heard for the first time recently thanks to a very good friend of mine. I heard it and the images just came to life.<p>

This was my first time writing this pair and I hope you enjoyed it. If so, please consider offering a review, I would truly appreciate it.


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